don't try to catch me
by Schlampcat
Summary: in-ep for Stalker. C/S


Title: don't try to catch me (Stalker In-ep)  
  
Author: Schlampcat  
  
Rating: PG-13? Yeah. Yeah? Yeah... Maybe R for language.  
  
Disclaimer: There are not mine, however hard I try. Like always, everything belongs to CBS.  
  
Spoilers: Uhm, yes. See title for further information.  
  
Feedback: Prevents me from eating my pen!  
  
Archive: Just ask.  
  
Summary: You ever thought about the scene Sara and Catherine are talking about Jane's, like, background? The way they look at each other, and what they say without words? And the way Sara looks? I did, and I wondered where Sara got this jacket. It took me the 236 899th rewatch and some sleepless nights to figure it out. So here it is! Sara's POV  
  
*************  
  
The alarm clock is blinking 16:30 as I sleepily open my eyes.  
  
It strikes me after a few seconds. Shit, it can't be that late. But another look at the clock tells me it is. Damn. I overslept. I never do that. Work. Late. On the edge of panic, trying to wriggle out of the sheets, I wonder what made me sleep this long. Why... Oh, I remember. Something, no, someone kept me awake after work, and, well, it was somewhat exhausting. But not in a bad way.  
  
I stumble out of the bed, the sheets clinging to my legs almost causing me to fall. Bare naked I manage to stand, searching the room for my clothes. I feel like I lost the major part of my brain cells somewhere during the sleep, maybe even before that. Hell, it will take me hours to become clear again. And I have to be at work in... Oh, god, I wish I wouldn't be all mixed up after sleep. Now I don't even have enough time to take a shower, but at least I remember having had some water running down my skin before the bed episode.  
  
Where the hell did I leave all my clothes? The bright sunlight is blinding me. I want... Ah, there are my panties, in front of the bed. Some things never change. Breathless, I continue overlooking the room. Did I wear a bra yesterday? Oh. Yep, I did, it is hanging on the doorknob. At least this time the straps are intact.  
  
A pair of trousers is thrown over a chair, and I assume they are mine. I stagger through the house, pulling up my jeans, sliding up the fly, fumbling with the button. Hell, why doesn't anybody invent something more practical? I almost broke off a nail during the fight with my damn jeans. Not that I'd care.  
  
On the corridor floor I stumble over the pants I wore the last day. They're lying hazardously on the floor, inside out. Must have been in some kind of hurry to get rid of them. I remember being too busy with touching every bit of her to care about my clothing.  
  
Now only my shirt is missing. With my upper body naked, I run to the kitchen, gazing into every corner. Nope, no shirt here, neither under the table, nor on the counter. Fuck, where did I leave it? I don't think looking in the fridge would help, even though we've had some strawberries. Speaking of food, my stomach is reminding me loudly that I didn't have breakfast.  
  
16:43. No, definitely not enough time to eat. Hell, I am *never* late. Never.  
  
I only hope none of the neighbors is watching me now.  
  
Again, my stomach rumbles. And running through the house doesn't make it better.  
  
Finally, I find my shirt near the front door, draped over a pair of trousers that are not mine. When I lift it off the floor, I nearly laugh out loud. The fabric is completely torn up, the seams ripped apart. The left sleeve is hardly fixed to the rest of the shirt. I don't think wearing it at work, the neck down to my belly button would be a wise decision.  
  
But there's not enough time left to stop at my apartment for a new shirt. Fuck. I sprint back to the bedroom, pulling a thin t-shirt and a dark jacket out of her wardrobe. Not my usual behavior, but... Hm, her smell emanates from the fabric. Something I could like. Yes, I like it. Even though my arms are a little too long for it, and the collar is scratching my neck.  
  
My keys in my pocket, I sit in the car within thirty seconds. If I hurry, I can still make it to the lab in time. It will be hard enough to appear inconspicuous in clothes that are not mine, and with my hair ruffled the way it is, since I didn't see a brush after sleep and... whatever. I don't want to have Warring additionally teasing me for being late.  
  
I meet her in the CSI hallway, discussing something with Warrick. Her eyes sparkle as she takes in my outer appearance, especially the jacket I'm wearing. I wink at her conspiratorially, passing them.  
  
It takes ages until Catherine and I are in the break room, alone. I'm about to tell her what I found out about Jane Galloway's phone records, as she offers me a cup of coffee, which I decline. Nevertheless, she pours me a cup and places it next to me on the table, resting her hand on my shoulder briefly. "What about Jane's work history?" she asks before sitting down opposite me.  
  
"Secretary at a brokerage firm. About three weeks from the day of her death she took a leave of absence." I remember filling out a request form myself weeks ago, and I remember a plant. And images of Catherine turning up at my apartment in the middle of the night, giving me a thousand reasons not to go, emerge in my mind. Once again, I am glad I changed my mind after all.  
  
For the next few minutes, Catherine keeps me talking about the case, absorbing the news I deliver. She knows how cases like this one affect me, and she doesn't even blink as I half shove, half throw receipt for receipt over the table. She adjusted to my moods during the last months.  
  
But this time I'm more composed than usually, since we spent hours talking about the case, and I know it's only a matter of time until we get our hands on Jane's killer. It feels good to be able to help justice, and it feels even better to know Catherine will be there.  
  
Finally I hand her Jane's phone record, and in a split second, she figures it out where the calls came from. "Inside her house."  
  
I look at her, waiting for her to say something, to do something, but she's just as shocked as I was when I got the phone record. "You already told Grissom?" she finally breaks the silence.  
  
I shake my head. "He's out talking to some witness Brass discovered."  
  
She thinks about it for a moment, then says, "I'll phone him. In a minute." I expect her to rise and leave the room, instead she stays, her piercing eyes focused on me. My heart beat fastens, and just when I think I can't take it any longer, she asks, "How do you deal with it?"  
  
I look at her, blankly, before answering, "I'm okay, Cath." Under my breath, I add, "I got some distraction lately." My leg has its own will, without any help from me it presses against Catherine's thigh below the table.  
  
She's blushing slightly. "Uh-huh. So... Do you think about doing it again some time?"  
  
I grin mischievously. "Yeah, actually I do. Oh, and, you know, somebody ripped my shirt apart this morning. It was my favorite, and I don't think I will be able to wear it again," I say, trying to sound depressed, while my fingers softly caress the back of her hand.  
  
She doesn't even feel sorry for my shirt, I can tell by the look in her eyes. This time she's the one distracted. "I'll buy you a new one," she suggests.  
  
A frown appears on my forehead, my fingers slightly teasing Catherine's wrist. "This was my *favorite* shirt, Catherine, you can't just buy a new one!"  
  
Her eyes even darken. "I think I can figure something out to make it up," she mutters under her breath.  
  
I withdraw my hand, smiling widely. I'm sure she can. I stand up, giving her a wink. "I'm gonna give Grissom a call."  
  
I'm about to leave the room, as she calls me back. "Sara? I like it when you wear my clothes." Now she grins, winking at me before I turn back around. 


End file.
